


Backhand

by Sineala



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Anger, Avengers Vol. 4 (2010), BDSM, Community: 616kinkmeme, Impact Play, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Repression, Shame, Under-negotiated Kink, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4422284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony always knows what Steve needs, even before Steve does. But just because Steve needs something doesn't mean he likes needing it -- especially when what he needs is to hit Tony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backhand

**Author's Note:**

> A fill for the shiny new [616kinkmeme](http://616kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org), for the following [prompt](http://616kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1418.html?thread=11146#cmt11146): _Steve/Tony, commander uniform kink, impact play, orgasm denial: Give me a brutal, angry, inscrutable Commander Rogers and a mouthy, defiant, desperately instigatory Tony. Bonus points if Steve feels sated and guilty and kind of despicable afterward. Mega bonus points if Tony plasters on a cordial for-the-presses smile to see him off._
> 
> This is consensual but poorly-negotiated and kind of fucked-up. Please consider that your warning.
> 
> Thanks to [magicasen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/magicasen) for beta.

Steve's not exactly sure how this happened, but Tony's grinning up at him from the floor, blood trickling from his split lip, a bruise beginning to darken his cheekbone. His fingers are working at the buttons of his shirt and it's patently obvious that he's half-hard in his dress pants and getting harder.

Steve unclenches his fists and stares down at his hands, watching bones and tendons move in the gaps between the leather of the uniform's fingerless gloves. What the hell are they doing?

"Oh, come on," Tony pants, bright-eyed, and his tongue swipes out, licks up the blood on his own lip. "I know you can hit harder than that, Commander."

This is all Tony's fault, Steve thinks, hot with anger. The mission this morning had gone spectacularly sideways and all he wanted was a goddamn evening to himself and then Tony -- and God, he doesn't even know how to feel about Tony anymore -- had shown up at his door and smiled one of those thousand-watt smiles he saved for the newspapers and said _I know what you need, Rogers_.

And he'd tilted his chin up in that insufferable way he got when he was right and he knew it, and he'd stepped in and he'd said _Hit me_ and everything in Steve went hot and cold and then he couldn't breathe for wanting it and he remembered things Tony didn't, Tony under him and begging him to finish it and he shouldn't ever want that, he shouldn't ever want anything like the war between them.

He wants this.

Tony hit him first. That way it was Tony's fault. It _is_ Tony's fault.

And now Tony's knuckles are scraped and he's pushing himself up and he's still grinning.

"Yeah," Tony breathes. "Yeah, that's the stuff." He raises his fists. "I know how you like it, _Commander_." He hasn't said Steve's first name, not once. "You want resistance. You want me to struggle. You want to _win_." Tony's shirt is half-unbuttoned; the RT's glowing blue and sweat is trickling down his neck.

"Shut up," Steve snarls, and he lashes out again. The blow is a solid hit to the shoulder and Tony groans with something that isn't quite pain; the sound runs all through Steve.

Tony laughs. "If you never suspected I was a mouthy fuck, I think you don't know me that well. Gotta make me, soldier--" and the sentence cuts off with a gasp as Steve hits him with his other fist, a little lighter, but lower, a body blow. Tony's eyes are wide and dark and he rocks into the blow. "Fuck, yeah, that's the way."

Tony splays one hand across his ribs, pressing his fingers to the site of impact, and he gasps, eyes gone half-lidded. His hand slides down his body to his groin, fondling his cock through the fabric of his pants, and he shudders.

Steve would never have imagined that Tony could like this. They get enough pain in their day jobs, so how in the world can this turn Tony on?

Tony must see it on his face, because he smirks. "Never done this before, huh? Sharon never wanted you to tie her up? Silk scarves? Blindfolds? Maybe some light spanking? Kink 101?"

He doesn't want to talk about Sharon. He doesn't want to think about Sharon. They never did this.

"How the hell do you even like this, Tony?"

Tony smirks again. "I'm not the only one who likes this, Commander," he says, and he raises his eyebrows significantly at the growing bulge in Steve's uniform.

He sees red for a split-second, and he knows Tony knows, Tony always knows, Tony always knows everything, he has no goddamn defenses.

"Fine," Steve says, flatly. "Fine." Tony wants him, Tony's getting him. "But we do this my way. My rules. I call the shots. You come if I say you get to, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Tony says, insouciantly. It is absolutely nothing like the military.

"Strip," Steve snaps.

"Sir, yes, sir," Tony drawls, and he slips out of the rest of his shirt, unfastens his slacks, and pushes them down. He's still standing there in boxers and socks, obviously hard, and there are bruises on his chest. And then he eyes Steve, up and down, taking in the uniform. "Well, you going to get to it?"

"I," Steve says, "believe I told you to strip."

And then, because he can, he steps forward, slides his fingers through Tony's hair, and he finds barely enough purchase to drag their mouths together. Tony's mouth tastes like blood.

They've never kissed before.

Steve lets one hand trail down the line of Tony's spine, then yanks down his boxers and slaps him hard on the ass. His fingertips sting where the gloves don't cover them, and the blow is shockingly loud, an almost frightening sound. Tony groans out something inarticulate and rocks into him.

He's rubbing up on the coarse fabric of the uniform, groaning with every little thrust.

"No," Steve says, sharply, and he drags Tony back by his hair. Tony's not going to come like this. They're nowhere near done. Steve wants-- God, he's always crazy around Tony, he's always been crazy around Tony. For Tony. "Christ, Tony, you always make me feel _so much_ , I can't deal--"

Tony looks him in the eye. His cheek has purpled now.

"News for you, Commander," Tony murmurs, and his lips part in a still-bloodied grin. "That's all you. Fucking _hit me_ , what the fuck are you scared of?"

Tony's boxers are tangled around his legs, so when he shoves at Steve and Steve shoves him back he topples over onto the floor, laughing.

"Oh," Tony breathes. "You're scared of _yourself_. That's a fucking tragedy. Commander Rogers," he muses, "gets off on some rough sex, and it terrifies the fuck out of him." He cackles. "Always knew you couldn't be so sweet."

Steve feels bright with power and at the same time thin and brittle with fear, because Tony knows, and maybe Tony's always known, even when he hasn't. "Shut _up_ , Tony."

"Make me," Tony repeats, like a chant. "Make me, stop me, make me like you fucking want to, yeah, that's right--"

Steve is working the belt out of his uniform, doubling the leather over in his hands, and he's not really thinking about what he's doing until he's got Tony pushed down flat on the bed and the belt cracks out against Tony's ass and Tony laughs and gasps out obscenities as his ass stripes red, again and again.

It's beautiful. It's awful. He can't believe he's doing this.

Tony's voice is low. "It's not quite right, is it?" He turns his head against the sheets and grins. "You like it better with your hands. You need to _feel_ it--"

"Hands and knees," Steve says, and he's not thinking about how saying it is getting him harder, and as soon as Tony rises up he smacks him down open-handed again, and again, until Tony stops talking, and he doesn't think about what else this is like, he doesn't, he doesn't--

Tony's ass is bright red and Steve is harder than he's ever been in his life. Tony's head is down, hanging limply. His shoulders are shaking with the strain, and he's kneeling, he's on his hands and knees, dripping pre-come on the sheets.

"Commander," Tony pants, and there's a begging, pleading note in his voice now. "Can I-- can I-- fuck-- fucking let me come."

Steve lets the word curl about his mouth before he says it. He tests it out. "No."

It sounds nice when Steve says it. It sounds _powerful_. It sounds like the only time Tony has ever listened to an order he's given.

Tony whimpers.

Steve pulls out the nearest chair and sits down. He unzips his pants. "Suck me," he says, and he hardly recognizes his own voice. "And I'll consider it. No hands."

Tony is messy and sloppy -- but skilled -- and he cannot be faulted for his determination. He takes Steve in deep, gags, and tries again. His hands are at his sides, but he's rubbing up against Steve's uniform again very enthusiastically, and Steve has an idea.

He gets a grip on Tony's hair and lifts his head up. Tony blinks at him a few times, dark-eyed, not quite tracking. His face is a wet mess and his lips are bright red, though the cuts have clotted.

"Since you like my uniform so much," Steve says, and he has no idea where the thought came from, but to hell with it, he's going with it, "you can keep fucking it. You get ten seconds to rub off against it, or you're not coming at all, you understand?"

Tony's mouth is hanging open like he's not following anything, but he nods. "Sir."

"Ten," Steve says, and Tony ruts up against his boots, his pants, anything he can reach. "Nine."

At five, Steve leans down and presses two fingers into the bruise at Tony's ribs, and Tony sobs and comes, trembling, all over Steve's uniform.

Steve's got a hand on his cock, not even bothering to get his gloves off, and he's jerking himself off and he's not thinking about what they're doing, he isn't, and Tony's breathing is shaky and he can get through this -- they can get through this -- if Tony just doesn't say anything else--

And Tony just looks up from between his thighs and grins and says, "So you gonna think about hitting me when you come? You want to make me bleed? You want to make me _cry_ and _beg_? You want to _hurt me_?"

And Steve groans and he can't not picture it and he's coming on Tony's _face_ , for God's sake, and Tony just shuts his eyes and takes it and Steve rides out the orgasm, the crest and the fall and the fall.

Tony's sitting back on his heels, naked except for the socks that he never actually bothered removing, covered in Steve's come and the bruises Steve put there, the shapes of Steve's hands on his body. It's perfect and awful at the same time.

Dear God, what have they done? What has he done to Tony? He can't-- he can't _like_ this-- it's degrading and despicable and wrong-- but God, it felt so good--

Tony's smiling at him like he smiles at the cameras, all masks and mirrors and everything real hidden behind it.

"Or," Tony says into the silence, with the same false grin, "you could repress it all and just try to kill me every so often. I hear that worked great last year."

"Get out," Steve says. His voice is shaking. He shuts his eyes. He hopes Tony won't notice that he's still hard.

There are rustling fabric noises, and when he opens his eyes again, Tony's gone.

Steve kneels on the floor, his eyes on the come-spattered thighs of his uniform, and he jerks off thinking about the noise his hand made against Tony's face.

**Author's Note:**

> I have [a tumblr](http://sineala.tumblr.com) and this story has [a post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/125021694199/fic-backhand) you can like/reblog, if you are so inclined.


End file.
